Memories of Mine
by Ruralstar
Summary: Coda for 6x14, Memorial. Tom Paris is suffering from more than Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following the crew's experiences with the Takaris monolith.  The Doctor and B'Elanna offer sound advice and a soft place to fall.  It's up to him to take it.


Title: Memories of Mine

Author: Ruralstar

Spoilers: Primarily season six's Alice, Pathfinder and Memorial. General series references.

Pairing: Paris/Torres

Set: Immediately following the events in 6x14, Memorial.

Summary: Tom is suffering from more than Post Traumatic Stress Disorder following the crew's experiences with the Takaris monolith. The Doctor and B'Elanna offer sound advice and a soft place to fall. It's up to him to take it.

Author's Notes: I've recently acquired the entire Voyager series. When I reached Memorial in my rewatch I was compelled to write a fic addressing Tom's reaction to the Monolith and the damage his behavior might have inflicted on B'Elanna. This is my first attempt at Voyager fanfiction. I've endeavored to follow series canon and I offer humble apologies to the Voyager purists who might read this. I love the series but it's been a long time since I've watched it and details tend to blur when you watch the whole series in a very short span of time.

This fic is dedicated to my dear K. You are a treasured friend and I wrote this in part because I know how much you love Memorial and the Tom Paris character.

Disclaimer: Star Trek Voyager is the property of Paramount, Rick Berman, Michael Piller and Jeri Taylor. No copyright infringement is intended.

Tom Paris knew on an intellectual level that the memories of Saavdra and the Takaris' massacre were not his to claim. The altered topography of the meadow, the 300 year old skeletons in the tunnel and the complex program contained within the monolith should have assuaged any residual guilt. They didn't. Vivid flashbacks enhanced by the sounds of battle and the noxious odors of the dead and dying continued to assault his senses at the most inopportune moments. Knowing how and why the memories were implanted did not lessen the toll they took, or make them any easier to reconcile with his reality. Tom wanted to support the Captain's decision to repair the monolith, but in the end he could only acquiesce with an air of quiet desperation. He resented the burden of Saavdra's mistakes when he already had so many of his own to atone for.

In the two weeks since leaving Takaris, Tom frequently sought the distraction and relative peace of sickbay. In the middle of the night shift Voyager's interior lighting was dimmed to simulate night and the few people he encountered spoke in habitual whispers. He did not explain his presence to the Doctor. Instead, he reviewed the daily logs and found tasks that would occupy his mind and dispel the faux energy of mounting exhaustion. During his fourth midnight sojourn the Doctor came and quietly stood by Tom's elbow until the ensign looked up with a questioning tilt of his head. When the hologram failed to speak, Tom placed the data PADD on the desk in front of him and sat back. The earnest concern on the Doctor's face induced his already queasy stomach to do a slow, anxious roll. His mouth tasted like cotton and he had to cough reflexively before speaking. "Something I can do for you, Doc?"

"You've developed a disturbing pattern of behavior in recent days, Mr. Paris." He caught and held Tom's wavering gaze. "I am wondering if there isn't something I can do for _you_."

"No, just trying to do my bit around here." Tom gestured at the PADD. "I noticed you were running an experiment on the proteins found on that M Class moon we orbited last week. Thought I would lend a hand."

"And three days ago I caught you running a diagnostic on the holo emitters here in sickbay even though my logs indicated that Lieutenant Torres had performed that same procedure six hours earlier and determined that all systems were running at peak efficiency." The Doctor sighed. "You are a lousy liar, Mr. Paris."

Tom shifted in his seat. "Gee, thanks. Guess I should take that as a compliment," he muttered weakly.

The hologram shrugged. "After the unscheduled diagnostic I decided to review your duty assignments. In addition to your shifts on the bridge you've pulled six extra shifts here in sickbay in the last ten days. Not counting these midnight rendezvous."

"What's your point?" Tom snapped irritably.

"I think you know exactly where I'm going with this line of reasoning, _Ensign_," the Doctor retorted with equal vigor. He gave them both a moment before saying, "I see no reason to report your work habits or insomnia to the Captain at this time. She has a full plate with her own memories of the Takaris massacre and the repercussions among the crew. However," he raised an emphatic finger, "I will be forced to speak up if you do not take steps to address the problem. And I do mean immediately."

"Address the problem?" Tom leaned further back in the chair, incredulous. "There isn't a switch tucked somewhere in the back of my brain, Doc. I can't shut this off. None of us can." If he had the strength, he would have been incensed by the implication that he could change the situation and was simply choosing not to. Presently, Tom could only rub tiredly at his gritty eyes and stare up into the Doctor's frowning countenance. "What the hell do you expect from me? From any of us?"

"I think we both know that my psychology sub-routines are rudimentary to put it kindly." The Doctor grimaced. "Had I unlimited resources at my disposal, I would suggest regular sessions of therapy, group and individual, for everyone on Voyager who was affected by the monolith. Unfortunately, we do not have access to a trained counselor or adequate personnel to relieve those crewmembers most seriously afflicted. We are left with a less desirable, but more attainable course of treatment."

"Meaning?" Tom prompted, certain he knew what was coming and equally sure he wasn't going to like it.

"Mr. Paris…Tom…" The Doctor perched on the corner of the desk, keeping eye contact with Tom even as he stood and stepped back against the wall behind him. "Everyone on the ship knows what happened on the planet. Some of you were more seriously affected than others by the memories. Like all memories even these will fade—eventually. For now you mustn't lose sight of the fact that those memories were _implanted_. True in content, but false in your experience." The Doctor's voice thickened with regret. "I've researched the procedures practiced by the Baneans and a dozen other races we've encountered since. I cannot remove those engrams. Neural suppressants and antidepressants will provide only temporary relief. The crew of Voyager must counsel one another in order to achieve a more permanent resolution."

"Easy for you to say." Tom slipped from behind the desk and paced to the center of the room. His cheeks were hot and slick with clammy sweat that sent shivers through his frame. He spun on his heel, unsure of what he wanted to say until the words spilled out. "You're a hologram! You can shut yourself off when things get difficult. Erase your memories with a few simple commands! You don't have to sleep, you don't have to dream…You don't have to explain to the woman you love why the thought of even sitting next to her fills you with such self-loathing that you can't hold down your lunch."

Tom expected the Doctor to become defensive of his sentience, outraged by the implication that he was lucky to be less than human. He clenched his fists, hoping to control the tremors that made him feel light-headed and caused the brightly lit sickbay to look dim and somewhat fuzzy around the edges. Belatedly, he realized that the Doctor had used his first name. Out of character for the querulous man who regularly treated him as more nuisance than aide.

"It is not easy for me to say," the Doctor quietly denied. "I am a physician. My instinct, programmed as it was, is to heal." He stood and faced Tom directly. "In this instance I am out of my depth. It pains me to admit that and offer only a layperson's course of treatment. Nevertheless," he took a step closer, "I prescribe a few days rest for you and a conversation with the one person who probably understands you better than anyone else on this ship. God help her."

Tom took an involuntary step back, stung by the suggestion despite having anticipated it. "No, I can't talk to B'Elanna right now," he whispered through gritted teeth. She had not come near him since Voyager left Takaris' orbit. After the verbal assault he had inflicted, Tom couldn't blame her. Given the choice he would have gladly abandoned the sullen, moody creature that greeted him in the mirror every morning. Now standing in the middle of sickbay, bathed in the deceptive brightness of midnight, Tom realized it was more than guilt that plagued him. It was fear.

"You do not give Lieutenant Torres enough credit," the Doctor remarked. "I would submit that the only reason she did not suffer the monolith's debilitating affects is that she already has equally disturbing visions stored within her mind. The detailed nature of Klingon racial memory is extremely well documented. Enhanced by mythology, personal family lore and the prejudices of Federation races who are still uncomfortable with the Kitomer accords, B'Elanna has her fair share of demons." The Doctor closed the distance between them and placed a hand lightly on Tom's trembling shoulder. "I do not mean to imply that your personal feelings are any less real to you. Talking to B'Elanna might help you to process your experiences and find a way to live with them, however."

"She tried." Tom scrubbed a hand across his forehead and moved to lean against one of the bio beds. "I pushed her away and I don't…" He sighed heavily and looked at the floor. "I honestly don't know how to let her back in." He left the rest unspoken. The Doctor was unnervingly intuitive and he was too tired to frame in words what seemed so blatantly obvious.

"The crew of Voyager is a pretty tight-knit group, Ensign. I doubt there are many who do not know how close you and B'Elanna have become. You are both highly respected, in spite of various transgressions," the last said with a heavy dose of irony. "You set an example for each other and for all of them. More than that…" he trailed off, looking pensive for a long moment before continuing. "More than that, I think you need one another. You say you don't know how to let her back in. Perhaps you should just try opening the door."

Tom wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the simple suggestion. Instead he found himself struggling to hold back the tears that had been threatening for days. Through bleary eyes he watched the doctor leave the room and return moments later with a hypospray. The man placed it in his hand and waited for Tom's fingers to curl around it before letting go.

"I want you to go to your quarters and administer this sleep aide. I will inform Commander Chakotay that you are on sick leave for 48 hours."

"Okay." The voice did not sound like his, the movements of his jaw felt exaggerated and stiff. Tom pushed off the bed. The short conversation had sapped the last of his energy and he wondered how he would fight off the nightmares as he wandered into the hallway and proceeded to the turbolift.

The Doctor stood in the doorway of sickbay and watched Tom's progress until the lift doors hissed closed. Nodding to himself, he retreated to his desk and logged the medical order for delivery to the First Officer at the start of the daytime duty shift. With a few quick taps he brought up the ship's duty roster and scanned it. "Doctor to engineering," he said.

"Torres here," B'Elanna answered crisply.

"Lieutenant, I would like to speak to you in sickbay if you have a few minutes."

"Is there anything wrong?"

"It's a private matter."

A hint of suspicion crept into B'Elanna's voice. "I'll be there shortly."

"Thank you."

Tom hated taking medications. Administering the hypospray as soon as he reached his quarters and stripped to his boxers and t-shirt was an act of desperation, as much as adherence to orders. He had no idea how he would get through the next 48 hours without a prolonged bout of unconsciousness. The powerful sedative put him under almost immediately. His sleep was leaden and mercifully dreamless. When he finally surfaced the chronometer read 1500, nearly 14 hours had passed since he left sickbay.

The face that greeted him in the bathroom mirror was pale but a bit less shadowed. His body felt rested, his mind unnaturally blank. He tried to enjoy the unfamiliar sensation as he prepared for the day. The harsh buzz at his door five minutes later shattered the calm and set his teeth on edge. Tom did not have to guess who waited in the corridor. He silently cursed the Doctor loud and long in his head and threw the towel he had been using into a corner of the bathroom.

_"Perhaps you should just try opening the door."_

The Doctor's suggestion echoed through Tom's head as he stepped to the center of his quarters. He stared at the closed door in front of him, frozen by her presence in and outside the room. The EMH had interfered with good reason. Was he ready for such sound advice? Was she? Tom pivoted in place. His restless blue eyes skimmed over the antiquated furnishings: lamp, couch, television set with its clunky remote resting on the coffee table. No one else had quarters like this on Voyager. They were unique to him—and to her. Created at the cost of many bouts of indigestion due to consuming Neelix's cooking in lieu of more palatable fare from the replicators. This was his haven and in recent months it had become hers, until he turned her away. Tom exhaled a shaky breath. "Come in."

Lieutenant B'Elanna Torres wore a sleeveless, rust colored dress that ended just above her knees and clung nicely to her every curve. Strappy leather sandals with open toes showed off neatly trimmed nails painted burgundy. Tom swallowed hard, torn between pleasure and guilt at the sight of her.

She smiled hesitantly. "Is it safe to come in?"

"I think so." He tried not to stare as she strolled boldly into the room. It was a futile effort and he did not miss the secretive grin she quickly hid when she turned to face him. Abruptly confronted by a more serious demeanor Tom crossed his arms and asked, "How did you know I would be here?"

"You're off duty and no one is using the holodecks right now."

He quirked a lip at her research. "How did you know I wasn't sleeping?"

B'Elanna mimicked his posture and tone. "I told the computer to alert me when the bio signature in your quarters indicated increased activity." Her expression softened. "It was a long wait."

"I see." Ordinarily being spied upon would irritate him. There were certain technological advantages people did not utilize out of courtesy. Monitoring a person's bio readings for non-medical purposes was one of them. The pleading look in B'Elanna's eyes did not allow him the luxury of anger. "I'm sorry," he murmured pathetically.

"Don't apologize." B'Elanna stepped closer and touched his elbow. Her touch was cautious, her expression wary. He felt sick for the reasons why and he opened his mouth to admit as much. B'Elanna shook her head. "I didn't understand before and I was pushing because I didn't know what else to do." Her hand slid forward and gripped his forearm. She tugged him gently towards the couch and urged him to sit. "The monolith didn't have the same effect on me as it did on most of the crew. Ironic, isn't it?"

The doctor's explanation replayed in the back of Tom's mind as he sank back against the cushions. He did not repeat it.

B'Elanna sat beside him. Her thigh was warm against his, her perfume a pleasant scent meant to relax and not arouse. Tom felt a faint stirring nevertheless, which immediately subsided when he tried and failed to recall their last intimate encounter. The events of the last few months had taken a toll on their relationship and neither of them had dared to reassess. In this quiet moment the disturbing realization that he had been primarily responsible for their recent problems forced a weary sigh from Tom's pursed lips. B'Elanna did not want to hear an apology but there was no question that she deserved one—for so many things.

"Tom?"

"What?"

"Talk to me. Please."

The words were not easy for her. B'Elanna was a product of an unlikely mixture of passive and aggressive tendencies, which she fought daily to reconcile. To seek resolution of any crisis in words and not actions was a concept she was still learning to grasp. Tom respected and admired her efforts but could not help a cloying feeling of inadequacy in light of them.

"Maybe you're not ready yet?" she asked, without letting go of his arm.

"I'm not sure I ever will be…at least for some of it." He brushed a hand across her fingers and then clasped both of his hands between his knees. "What that monolith put into our heads was worse than anything I ever saw while working with the Maquis." She tensed at the reference. Tom expected her to comment, or get up and pace the floor. B'Elanna did neither. After a long moment she shifted closer and draped her free arm across his broad shoulders. It was an awkward arrangement, seated as they were, but she did not budge. Not even when he leaned forward and scrubbed roughly at the stubble clinging to his cheeks and chin.

"I know you've seen worse with your own eyes. You've killed for a cause you believe in. Smelled and tasted death." He glanced at her face and tried to draw strength from the openness and concern so clearly displayed there. "I know you understand but I also know that I can hear their screams, smell their charred flesh and taste the blood and ashes in my mouth. My left arm still aches even though it was never burned. It was real, B'Elanna. The colors, the sounds, the feel of the dirt and blood against my skin. I can't pretend it isn't."

"I'm not asking you to."

Tom nodded, too ashamed to look at her again. The Doctor had briefed the entire crew the day after they left Takaris' orbit. He stressed the necessity of grieving the victims of the massacre as an important part of the recovery process. Tom had tuned out this advice with the same intensity as he later rejected B'Elanna's attempt to comfort him. That restrained grief now exploded into his conscious mind. Tom gasped aloud as if struck. He shuddered violently and lurched free of B'Elanna's grasp. His breathing was loud and ragged in the silence as he stumbled the length of the room.

Tears were a sign of weakness in the Paris family. A decidedly feminine trait the Admiral tolerated in his daughters and outwardly rejected in his son. Tom grew up hiding his disappointment and hurt even from his mother, who made a point of not sharing her husband's views on the subject. The accident at the academy, the end of his Starfleet and Maquis involvement, even his incarceration in New Zealand were all met with stoic resolve as fostered by Owen Paris. Tom's experiences on Voyager had softened that defensive armor. Developing his first genuine friendships since childhood tempered it further. He started to believe he could be more than the class clown subsisting on a steady diet of adolescent bravado. The fear of failure, of disappointing his peers remained intact until friendship turned into something deeper with B'Elanna. She was the first to break through to the core of the man Tom had become. The thought of losing her brought an instant ache to his throat. Hurting her made him feel worse than any physical malady he could remember or imagine. The incident with Alice, the self-aware shuttle, nearly destroyed the fragile new identity he had so carefully cultivated. The release of tears still eluded him however.

Tom hugged his arms to his chest and stared hard at the floor. His footprints in the short nap carpet were blurry. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and struggled to breathe evenly around the thickening lump in his throat. Grief for the civilians on Takaris mingled with the guilt and fear he had felt ever since Alice. He had been no help whatsoever to Harry during this latest crisis. The younger man had matured during his time in the Delta quadrant but he still possessed a child-like spirit prone to naiveté. The monolith had totally overwhelmed him and all Tom could do was stand by and watch. Harry was not the only victim of his indifference and frequent bouts of temper. Seven, Neelix, Tuvok, Chakotay and even the Captain had experienced it to varying degrees. The former Borg was one of the few crewmembers unaffected by Takaris. She refused to be baited the night Tom stumbled across her in the mess hall and tried to pick a fight. He did not remember what he said, but the confusion and pity in her eyes stood out vividly. Seven drove him from the room without saying a single word. He looked up and discerned the same emotions tainted with concern darkening B'Elanna's attentive gaze.

She closed the gap between them, refusing to stop even when Tom shook his head and put up both hands to ward her off. Her fingers encircled his wrists and she pulled him back towards the couch. Tom stiffened, silently resisting her relentless tug. B'Elanna held on and his barriers slipped further.

"I don't know how to do this." Tom's voice, weak and broken, was barely a whisper as they sank onto the cushions and then slid slowly to the floor. B'Elanna knelt before him and her small, strong hands rose to cup his cheeks. The room swam in the dizzying refractions of unshed tears. Tom flinched and tried to look away. The warm pressure of B'Elanna palms held him still.

"I don't…oh God, B'Elanna…"

She stroked the damp hair from his temples and wicked away the first trailing tears with her thumbs. Tom shivered harder and reached for her warmth. Grief rose in suffocating waves that dimmed the room to a halo of flickering lights . The sounds of other people's suffering were familiar. The distant, mounting wail clawing up his parched throat terrified him. He wanted to crawl inside her, could not get close enough. Her arms eased around his back and across his chest, feather-light and strong as iron. Tom clung to her wrist with both hands: squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his jaw in a final desperate attempt at suppression.

"It's okay," B'Elanna breathed.

The dam broke with a shuddering sob. Thereafter was silence wracked by white-hot spasms that seared every overtaxed nerve in Tom's body. B'Elanna unwavering presence granted him permission to feel more than anger. To regret what he could not do for the Takaris' civilians and to forgive Saavdra for the mistakes he made. To apologize to his crewmates on Voyager and embrace their mutual sorrow without the taint of shame for what could not be helped. To forgive himself for hurting B'Elanna and to fully accept the frailties he knew existed but seldom saw in her. Tom grieved for his younger self; the child who grew dependent on his father's approval. Flourished in the glow of his acceptance and crumbled beneath the weight of his disappointment. Owen Paris might never meet the man Tom had become. The Admiral was proud of that man nevertheless, and the thought that he might never hear those words in person tore the breath from Tom's lungs. He snaked his arms around B'Elanna's waist and buried his face in her shoulder. She cradled him close and they rode the storm of his release until his breathing eased and the tears dried on his sallow cheeks.

Tom did not know how long they sat on the floor before he found the strength to move up to the couch, pulling B'Elanna up with him. She nestled into the crook of his arm and laid a protective hand on his chest. There was no expectation in her continued silence. He was sure she would sit there for hours if necessary. Another uncharacteristic quirk of behavior Tom appreciated more than she would ever understand. He fingered back a lock of hair behind her ear and traced the curve of her lips. B'Elanna smiled against his palm.

"Thanks," he managed, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

"Anytime."

"I wish I could say this is all behind us."

"It's not." She idly stroked his jaw with two fingers. "Just don't shut me out again."

"I won't."

"Good."

"Have you eaten?"

B'Elanna shook her head and sat up. She cupped his cheek and leaned in to kiss him soundly on the mouth. "I was waiting for you," she replied huskily.

Tom gratefully surrendered to the suggestive glint in her dark eyes. "You have something in mind?"

"Six weeks, ten hours, and an odd number of minutes."

"Excuse me?"

"You're a bright boy, Ensign. Do the math."

Tom chuckled easily and pulled her into his lap. "I was never a quick study. Maybe you could provide some one-on-one tutelage?"

"If you think you are ready for more advanced courses."

"Ready, willing," he bent and captured her mouth. Their tongue parried and danced, probing deeply as their hands moved in quick, deft caresses. "And able," Tom affirmed when they finally pulled apart.

"We'll see about that," B'Elanna's hand stroked the length of his thigh, eliciting a shiver of an entirely pleasurable nature. "Computer, dim the lights," she commanded before turning her full attention to more important matters.

*THE*END*


End file.
